


landscape after cruelty

by bad blood (eroticcodependence)



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Consensual Violence, M/M, Multi, Murder, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eroticcodependence/pseuds/bad%20blood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No names, no faces, only two aliases. Mello and Near. M and N.</p>
<p>The body count rises viciously and without remorse, and the pair burn a trail of death and destruction through America with knives and gasoline.</p>
<p>And they were, quite frankly, beginning to become a pain in Inspector Light Yagami’s ass.</p>
<p>(A serial killer!au).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is rated for later chapters, and will contain graphic content. If you're cool with that, enjoy!
> 
> An extra special thank you to [Jessica](http://matsudaiskira.tumblr.com/), who is the ray of sunshine beta reading this fic for me.

_“My dragonfly,  
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing  
for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,  
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape  
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is  
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me  
tight, it's getting cold.”_  
\- Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken

 

Near is good with his hands. This is an established fact.

He's good at loading guns and sharpening knives. He's good at picking locks and holding throats. He's good at slicing and stabbing and scratching and all the rest of it; good at taking and taking and the relentlessness that comes with taking so much. These are skills he taught himself. Through trial and error, one can only assume. He's never shared the details and Mello never minded. But somehow he learned to carve open and bleed out, always incredibly precise, always decisive on how he's chosen to kill. He hates to be rushed.

Near is good with his hands and he knows this. Mello knows it, too. He knows Near is better at all of these things than he is, and that still makes Mello feel a deep burn of resentment on the odd occasion. Even after all this time. But there's always someone there to vent his frustrations on, in a bar or a club or a parking lot, waiting like low hanging fruit, and Mello's reminded of all the things that he is good at. Even better at.

Mello loves fire. He's got the scars to prove it, on his shoulder and his face. Of course he can cut throats with the best of them, but burning what is left has always been his favourite part. He loves the unrelenting heat, the colour of dirty flames, and the way chalky white ash clings to his skin and face. Near doesn't share Mello's admiration of fire, which perhaps makes Mello love it that little bit more.

He first loved it when he watched his home ignite. Well, calling it a home was perhaps a little too generous, but that's what he has always thought of it as and he hasn't had another since. He watched his father burn until he was nothing. It cost him half of his face, standing there and just _watching_ , and Mello became very fond of the idea of watching people like that burn into nothing. He learned how to set a fire, then an inferno, and then an explosion. As he grew, he got better at it. At nineteen, six years after he fell in love with fire, he considered himself an expert on the subject and no one had been inclined to disagree. Not even Near.

And so, they had grown to be a perfect, albeit dysfunctional, pair. Near with his hands and Mello with his flames. Their agreement had never been spoken, but they lived their lives by it, lighting fires and getting into bar fights and knowing a simple, sheer joy of governing life and death. It’s dirty and bitter tasting, reckless and ruthless, but they love it. They would rather die than walk away from it.

To the police, they are nameless, faceless, and the single most dangerous pair America has ever seen. They only leave behind perfectly placed evidence, only the things they want to be found, that whisper _catch us if you can_. Charred bodies, burning buildings, taunting signatures on their work. No names, no faces, only two aliases. Mello and Near. M and N.

The body count rises viciously and without remorse, and the pair burn a trail of death and destruction through America with knives and gasoline.

And they were, quite frankly, beginning to become a pain in Inspector Light Yagami’s ass.


	2. hunger

It's cold outside. _Absolutely fucking freezing_ , actually, if anyone were around to ask her opinion on the matter. She has goose-bumps on her legs and neck, and shivers run down her neck to her spine, climbing right back up again moments later. The cold does nothing for the foul mood she’s in.

For not the first time, she curses herself for ending up here, staring at the door not sixty yards away. She hears a dull, thudding bass from the building, feels the car she’s leaning on begin to dig into her back. It's hard to decide which is better, outside or in, because while her throbbing headache is beginning to ease slightly, the chill is barely worth it. She still feels a sharp pain in her temples and her shaking does nothing to help it. She doesn’t even have any painkillers on her. It’s not as if she’d even wanted to come in the first place, anyway.

She brings a cigarette to her lips shakily, noting that the blue nail polish she had so meticulously painted on only a few nights ago has chipped significantly in the last few hours. Chunks of dark hair fall forwards as she leans off the car just slightly, shielding her face from the slight but icy breeze. Sam is inside and they've got the keys, but she'll be damned if she's going back in to get them, so she bears the cold in her stubbornness. Cupping her hands over her mouth she strikes her thumb across her lighter, and it only sparks. She tries again.

Nothing.

Swearing softly under her breath, she taps her pockets for a pack of matches, another lighter, anything. There’s a slim chance she could have something spare in this jacket (surely it can come in handy for something, because it’s doing a piss poor job of shielding her from the cold), but after searching for a while she comes up empty handed. Balling her hands into fists in frustration, she falls back against the car, staring upwards at the deep blue and starless sky above her. The unlit cigarette hangs on her lips. Her headache drums on, and her skin prickles in the frosty night air, and to top it all off her only lighter is dead. Sam has one, surely, but she is _not_ pushing past sweating bodies and the drunken air inside to find them, not when it had taken her so long to find her way out.

"Need a light?"

"Shit!"

The smoke falls from her mouth as she leaps to the right, gripping the roof of the car to stop herself from tumbling. She's been caught totally off guard, hadn't even heard footsteps. Who the fuck can step silently on gravel, anyway? Suddenly aware of the pounding of her heart, as well as the sharp stab of pain through her head at the sudden movement, she grits her teeth and presses a hand to her chest. “What the fuck? Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to sneak up on people?”

“Sorry about that.” The voice is unfazed and definitely male, but soft enough that he sounds quite young.

Breathing sharply, she realizes she’s staring at his boots, blacker than black with laces loose. She also feels the hand on her shoulder, steadying her. She backs away from it. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He says, much calmer than she feels, and she hears his arm fall to his side. His other hand is outstretched in front of her, gloved in black leather, the cigarette that had fallen out of her mouth resting in his palm. Did he pick it off the ground in the time she spent spluttering? Or were his reflexes quick enough to pluck it out of the air?

“Oh. Thanks.” She takes the smoke, relaxing a little when she looks him over. He’s young, really young, and even slightly shorter than her when she is finally standing up fully with the added boost of her heels. He has choppy blond hair which falls just below his jaw in dead straight chunks, sharp features, and a twist in the skin on the left side of his face that seems like a long ago healed scar. It crawls down his neck and seems to sprawl and spread over his shoulder. She can’t tell for sure though, it disappears beneath his faded and well-worn jacket. Releasing her vice like grip on the car’s roof, she crosses an arm over her body, resting her elbow on the opposite hand. “Well? You got a lighter or not?” The cigarette is held pointedly between two of her fingers.

He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, which are as black as everything else he’s wearing. The rosary hanging from his neck is the only exception, but it doesn’t seem out of place. He produces a lighter, and with a flick of his thumb it bursts to life, a pale orange flame hovering above the silver. “Always.” He says simply, and as she puts the cigarette to her lips again he lights it. “You got one to spare?” He nods at her cigarette.

Breathing out in a rush of billowing white, she passes him the pack after digging around for it in her pocket. “Just one.” The corner of her lip twitches into a half smile. She’s feeling better already; the thudding of the music from inside melting into background noise and the pain in her head begins to subside with it. She’ll quit the smokes next week- she really needed this one.

The stranger doesn’t faze her. He could only be twenty, twenty three at the most. There are more dangerous things behind the door she stumbled out of not too long ago.

“What’s your name?” She asks, because he looks like he isn’t going anywhere soon. He has turned so his elbows are resting on the hood of the car, the cigarette smouldering between his lips as he lazily bows puffs of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

“Michael. Like the Archangel Michael.”

“Maria.” She answers his question before it comes. “Like, me Maria.” He nods, looking back out across the car park and at the highway beyond. This club is well out of the way, but Sam had assured Maria that it was good, it would be fun. So much for that. Now she’s out in the cold, smoking with this blond stranger, and while it could be worse it could also be a lot better. The pair stands in silence for a short while. Wisps of ashy white linger in the air around them, the wind eventually carrying the smoke away, and Maria’s mind wanders as she watches. Eventually, she drops the cigarette to the gravel, grinding it under her heel with every intention of finding Sam and pulling them off whoever they are grinding on to get them both home until--

“Let’s get out of here.”

 

-

 

Maria is not stupid. She’s not gullible either. She’s not naive or easy or anything else someone might accuse her of being for getting into this car, for letting this man take her somewhere. He had been very... convincing. That’s all.

At first, she’d refused his offer, saying that she had a friend inside that she needed to drag home. He pointed out they weren’t much of a friend for leaving her out on her own; let them get a taxi, let’s go do something fun.

You don’t seem like a one night stand kind of guy.

You don’t seem like a stand alone outside of a club kind of girl.

They’d joked and he actually made her laugh, made her forget about the cold. They’d ended up standing close and she felt the heat rolling off his body, despite the chill his lips were warm when she let him kiss her. And yeah, it was good, and he was just out to have some fun so come on, Maria, let’s go. She relented after his coaxing. He was tame enough, after all, even a little coy. Like he didn’t do this very often, or at least wanted her to believe that. So she sent a text to Sam, _grab a taxi if you’re wasted, I’ll text you tomorrow_. And they left.

They laughed, and flirted, and it was all in good fun.

That was, until they pull up at a motel, not too far from the club. She had been expecting an apartment, or even a shared flat; she’d just assumed he was a student, actually. Suddenly nervous and always one to trust her gut, she sits still for a little too long. It must catch his attention. “I’m not from around here, just in town to see a friend.” He explains. As if he senses her hesitation.

“Hey, listen.” Michael had been leaving the car, he turns back to her when she speaks, and the door hangs open. “I have this headache, y’know? It’s being a real bitch. Give me your number, I’ll just call a cab, and maybe we’ll--?”

She expects him to understand, he had seemed pretty nonchalant earlier. But he clicks his tongue, interrupting her, and says, “Can’t let you do that, Maria.”

For a moment, she is stunned into silence. Eventually, she splutters out, “...Sorry?”

“Don’t talk.”

Suddenly, there’s a gun in his hand. An awful chill that has nothing to do with the cool air spilling into the car claws through her chest. It reaches her throat, making his demand unnecessary, as her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth and she can’t think, can’t breathe. She just stares at it, and then at him, who is the same picture of careless calm that he had been moments ago.

“You’re going to come with me, understand? Just in front, so I can see you. You’re not going to even think of screaming, or yelling for help, or running.”

“What if I do?” She gasps, slightly taken aback at her own sudden defiance. Or stupidity.

“I’ve got a gun in my hand. Use your imagination.”

“You won’t shoot with all the people staying here...”

“You say that as if you think I’ve never done this before.”

Maria is silent.

“Come on, then. Or do you need a bullet in your leg for some encouragement?”

She is out of there faster than she thought she was able.

He waits for her to start moving before he follows, his gun pressed inconspicuously to his thigh as he walks. Certainly an improvement on when it had been pointed at her, but a constant threat nonetheless. There is no one is around. Only the occasional orange ray of light filters through the drawn curtains from the small motel rooms. Aside from that, she can’t find anywhere to run to, even if she happened to be willing to risk her life on the fact he might not want to draw any attention. Besides that, he is so close they’re almost touching. A swift strike from the butt of his pistol would be all it would take to send her to the ground.

Dread takes hold, rolling through her in waves. She doesn’t know what he’s going to do to her, but she’s well aware of how unlikely it is that he’ll let her go in one piece, or if she’ll even live to see tomorrow. Hot tears stream down her face; soft sobs are choked down in her throat. He takes no notice of them. “It’s the last room. Walk on in when you get there, it will be unlocked.”

Maria doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nods.

She can’t help but hesitate at the door. So, clearly impatient, he nudges her forward with the barrel of the gun. It’s more than enough to get her to open the door and step inside.

The room is sparsely decorated. A chair and a desk, cheap paintings hanging in cheap frames, a door in the far wall which she assumes leads to a bathroom. Two beds. One is littered with various belongings, clothing and bags and the like, and remains clearly unused. The other has another man sitting in the centre of it. She squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself to breathe, and tries to ignore that he is dissembling a gun, the parts laid out in front of him. Maria really has no doubt about what he said before. He- or rather they, now- know what they’re doing, and she finds very little comfort in the fact that many woman would have been in exactly her position.

Michael closes the door behind them, sliding the lock into place. Maria feels much like a deer caught in headlights, danger in front and behind her with nowhere to run or hide or escape.

“You took your time.” The one on the bed speaks, and Maria opens her eyes to actually look at him. He seems even younger than Michael, his hair the lightest shade of blond she can recall ever seeing, his eyes underlined with dark circles. Only a teenager, surely. Just a kid. She watches him get up, and when his eyes meet hers he only regards her with cool disinterest. Or not. Maria realises she can’t read him at all, so the boredom she sees could be something else entirely. “Who’s your friend?” He asks.

“I thought I told you to clear the bed.” Michael- who is probably not actually named Michael, she guesses- takes Maria by the elbow and gives it a tug downwards. She gets the message and kneels on the ground, watching as he seems to forget about her and focuses instead on the other man. Who he takes by the neck and pulls into a... kiss? The smaller one goes willingly and she can’t help the way her mouth falls open just slightly. Of all the things that could have happened in that moment, that was the last thing she expected. Michael growls something before he pulls away. Maria doesn’t catch it. She doesn’t particularly care, either.

“I didn’t want to.” The younger one is paler, his skin is unmarred and his features are soft. He kneels down next to her, looking her over with huge, grey eyes; she draws in further on herself, hunching away from his stare. “Besides, I don’t think our guest really minds. What’s your name?”

Maria clenches her fists and stays silent.

“I’m Near, and he’s Mello, despite what other name he might have given you. Now that we have introduced ourselves, you could at least give us the same courtesy.”

All at once, she remembers those names, from the news and the papers. And all at once, she is much, much more scared than she was before. These two are ridiculous. Some pair of psychos who get their kicks lighting fires and tearing people apart. The police don’t know their faces or their real names, for crying out loud. Maria shakes her head, quivering as fresh tears spill down her face. God, she doesn’t want to die. She has friends and family and a boyfriend who loves her, she _can’t_ die.

“Catch.” Mello throws something at Near, who plucks it out of the air in much the same way that Mello- not Michael, Mello- had caught her cigarette a couple of hours ago. She can’t tell what it is until he unsheathes it, and a soft, high whimper escapes her when Near holds it in front of his face. The knife is black, and it looks to her like one of her dad’s old hunting knives, excluding the fact that this one seems as though much more care has been taken to keep it looking new. It is serrated low on the blade on both sides, and it catches the grainy light from the single fading bulb in the room. From only the look of it she can tell that it is fatally sharp. Maria looks from it to Near, realising she’s being watched, and her skin begins to crawl.

Her heartbeat is bruising, and she is crying freely. These two have a reputation. The bodies they leave are so fucked up they aren’t usually identified until another one has been found. It’s now a very real possibility that she will be one of them, and doesn’t care how ridiculous she looks blubbering so much, because she is terrified.

Mello, however, doesn’t appreciate the sobbing. “Shut her up. I can’t hear myself think.” He’s rummaging through the bags on the bed, pulling things out seemingly at random. She doesn’t want to know what.

_Please, please. If I’m going, just let it be quick, Please._

Near tilts his head, regarding her with owlish eyes. He is seeing right through her. He has to be, to have that look on his face, to be staring at her as though all of her thoughts are inked into her skin. When his finger tilts her chin upwards, she gasps, but doesn’t try and resist the movement. “Be quick.” Her voice is gurgled and hard for even her to understand, her throat hot and thick and sticky. “You’re going to kill me. Just, please, be quick.”

“Is she mine?” Near asks, finally looking away from her and turning towards Mello. That knife is still in his hand. Maria very pointedly avoids looking at it. She chooses instead to stare up at the grimy ceiling, and she thinks about everything she is leaving behind.

It’s... peculiar. She is so sure she is going to die that she can’t think of any alternative ending, any way out. She always thought that she would die old, and at peace, or she’d die so suddenly she wouldn’t have the time to contemplate it anyway. Her headache is back and it’s kicking her head in, her breath is shaky and loud.

“Go for it.” Maria hears Mello speak, but doesn’t turn to look at him, just leaves her gaze fixed upwards. At any other time she would be insulted at being referred to as an object. She can’t find the energy for that at the moment, though. They’d probably revel in her discomfort anyway. It doesn’t matter anymore, none of it does. “I know you want to.”

_Just let it be quick._

Near’s knife is raised again.

“Oh, and Near?”

Maria’s eyes are locked with his now, the blade hovering between them.

“Her name is Maria.”

A sharp, burning, searing pain rips through her body.

And everything is black.


	3. sense

Mello is not surprised when he sees the knife slip into her throat as easily as it would have through butter.

Maria’s body is limp and sprawled awkwardly on the floor, her mouth hanging open and now beginning to spill blood over her cheap pink lipstick. Near had held her up while she choked and gasped and died, probably watching the funny way that people’s eyes seem to spark brightly and dull suddenly when they’re killed. Mello has seen it many times before, the same as he has seen the image of a body lying cold and lifeless, so no, he is not surprised. He is intrigued however.                 

Mello is mostly able to predict what Near will do, what kind of mood he’s in, how much blood he’s going to have on his hands and chest and sometimes even his face when he’s done. Sometimes it’s fast and dirty and brutal and Mello feels _alive_ , his flesh buzzing while the smell of blood and gore and death clings to it. Other times it’s slow, painstaking and almost loving care taken, their knives become paintbrushes dipped in beautiful, beautiful red. Near’s been quiet and Mello has been expecting the latter all evening, so it’s curious to see the woman cold and still, her blood gathering on the matted carpet.

Near draws one knee up against his chest, the other he leaves tucked beneath him. He doesn’t seem to mind that blood clings to the blade of his knife. Of course it’s not over; whatever Near wants to do with her will clearly just be easier if she isn’t breathing. Fair enough.

He’s as precise as always. Slowly, with absolute care that shouldn’t belong to the hands which just drove a knife into her throat, he rolls her onto her back, hands lingering on her jaw. “She’s nice.” He observes. Her neck is slick with blood and it continues to pour freely from the wound, staining the carpet a deep, almost black red. The colour matches the beads on Mello's rosary and he likes it. A lot. "Happy coincidence?"

"She was just standing around in the car park." Mello replies, curious because Near has something much more in mind for her, even if she's dead and neither of them can watch her squeal or scream or writhe. Mello loves it when they writhe. There was a boy, a few towns back now, and when Mello pressed two fingers into the bullet wound on his thigh he had shuddered beautifully. When he dug the bullet out the boy’s back shot straight like an arrow. "Easy pickings."

"Hm," Near hums shortly. "She will do." There’s an edge of something more than the usual deadpan in his voice.

Mello looks over the assortment of knives he has laid out on the bed, everything else packed away. Most of them are Near’s. That said, Mello would use one of those if he damn well wanted to, and he’d probably only really receive a glare in response. It irks Mello that he has yet to. The thing is that the tools are more Near’s thing to begin with. Mello is happy with a box of matches and his bare hands, because there’s nothing quite like squeezing someone’s throat until they turn cold. He’d been close to doing that to Near once, early on- the ring of bruises were there for weeks, and Near wore them like Mello had brought to him a diamond necklace rather than an act of violence. Near grew on Mello, just a little, after that.

He takes a switchblade in hand; turning it over, flicking it open. Near is still deciding where to start with Maria. But the knife feels good in Mello’s hand and he has no doubt he’ll be allowed his own pound of flesh in some way.

Mello sits opposite Near, legs sprawled in front of him, a fair distance away from Maria’s body. He wants chocolate. Blood would do, they’re equally as rich.

“Shall we begin?” Near shoots him a small smile, and Mello watches him work.

 

* * *

 

_“I don’t need this.” Mello demurs, knuckles white under his gloves, clenched tightly around the steering wheel._

 

_“How very hospitable of you, Mello.”_

 

_“I’m planning to watch you run for the fucking hills in the next few days. Hospitality isn’t my thing, Near.”_

 

_“It had better be a good plan, then.”_

 

_“Would you rather have a bullet between your eyes?”_

 

_Near doesn’t say anything, but Mello is sure he’s smirking._

 

* * *

 

The stench of gore is heavy in the air by the time Mello has moved close enough to watch Maria's flesh split beneath the blade. Near carves it with purpose, the knife steady in his hand despite the sheen of blood on his palm. It looks like a sacrifice. Near’s blade never drifts too far from her skin and she is just so _willing_ , her arms spread and eyes open. This is also perhaps the most methodical Mello has ever seen Near, so he has been happy to just watch Maria come undone. Of course, after a short while just waiting requires restraint, and Mello had resorted to pacing not too long ago. Now he’s kneeling, looming over Maria and invading Near’s space.

Near had cut out her tongue first, the most bloody act so far. Plenty was already pooled in her mouth from the knife in her throat. Near's palms were red by the time the tongue had been laid on the carpet beside her head. For all his threats to over the years, Mello had never actually pulled anything other than teeth from a mouth. That will change after tonight. Her nose was next, and by that point Mello had caught on to Near's intention. 

Mello was sure that the various investigators who were trying to figure out who bad-touched Mello and Near into murder would be horrified to see what Near was doing, and Mello wished he could watch them stress over the pictures of Maria they'll be receiving. It was a fascinating thing, the way they stumble and stutter in interviews when asked why Mello and Near exist. The pair have been diagnosed with pretty much everything, accused of having all kinds of extremist views. The truth is that the criminal profilers and the police have no idea, not even the slightest comprehension, of why Mello and Near do what they do. And Mello finds that simply hilarious. 

He lifts Maria's hand and intertwines her loose fingers in his. His grip would have had her squealing. Seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, _touching_ \- Mello doesn’t yet know why Near is denying Maria her five senses in the afterlife, but he knows which one he wants to take.

"Stop me." He smiles and watches Near place his blade under Maria's earlobe. "Tell me not to and I won't."

He isn't going to ask for permission, so. 

And Near doesn't say anything. He just pauses briefly, a fat bead of blood dribbling down to the floor from where his blade pressed against Maria’s ear. So Mello's grip tightens. He twists and pulls and presses and hears bones crunch, the sounds like a bolt of electricity through his spine. He snaps each of her fingers individually. One by one. Blood and guts and gore are all well and good, sure, but very few things rival the sound of snapping bones. It is like the pop and crackle of fire. With one hand braced on her palm and the other squeezing her fingers, he doesn’t stop until the off white of bone begins stabbing through flesh.

“Excessive.” Near said simply, and it’s almost, but not quite, a critique.

Mello just grins, all teeth and no sweetness. “Fun.”

Near spares a moment to glance up, giving Mello a withering look. It makes Mello’s blood simmer, just a bit. When Near looks at him like that it’s like he believes Mello doesn’t know what he’s doing, like it’s all gone to his head. Mello just glares the younger man down as he cracks the already shattered bone in Maria’s ring finger for good measure. Besides, this serves a purpose beyond just the pleasure of it. Her fingers have dislocated in the process. It gives his knife a place to move.

Mello’s switchblade hasn’t moved far, set down next to Maria’s shoulder. He retrieves it now, setting her hand down flat and steadying his left hand on the tips of her fingers. The switchblade flicks to life, and he begins with her thumb.

Thumb. Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The reason for humans having a specific number fingers on each hand is still debated. Somewhere along the evolutionary line, however, it was decided that five is best. Mello enjoys removing each and every single one of Maria’s. Blood flows slowly from her hand now that her heart is not beating- if they were to hang her up and slice her open, it would all pour out of her eventually, much like a piece of meat. Mello screws his nose up at the image- to think of Maria like that is an insult. Near moves to her other ear as Mello moves to her other hand, and the transition happens seamlessly, without words.

Pinky. Ring. Middle. Index. Thumb.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Her eyes are gouged last. Near does it himself and Mello doesn't mind, he just busies himself with cleaning his switchblade as he watches them pop out of their sockets.

Mello is quite pleased with what Near chose to do with her, even if he keeps it to himself.

Later, they complete their usual routine; perhaps a bit slower than usual. They clean the knives and wipe their fingerprints,  Mello places things the way he wants the police to find them. The pistol Near was dissembling to clean is put back together and the car is loaded. Maria remains the way they left her: tongue, nose, fingers, ears, and eyes lying in neat little rows beside her head. While Mello appreciates the image, he’s well aware that whoever finds her will not. Oh well. It’s nothing a little bit of therapy won’t suppress.

Near is still cleaning up by the time Mello is finished. He has discarded his bloody clothes in favour of clean ones and is currently in the bathroom, washing his hands and wrists from red to pink to white. Mello sits on the edge of the bath tub and watches. The room is a shitty little setup, with grotty tiles and mould growing in the corners. Mello has stayed in worse places, but he’s really starting to feel claustrophobic now.  The strange stains everywhere do nothing to improve the atmosphere.

“We should see Matt. I wasn’t even loaded earlier.” It’s not a lie. It’s not just general conversation, either. What Mello is really saying is _we are definitely going to see Matt_ , it’s just that New York is at least four hours behind them now, and Mello needs to make sure Near is aware they both know that. And they’ll be heading back anyway. “If he doesn’t have that De Luxe Beretta in yet, I’ll be pissed.”

Near glances back over his shoulder at Mello. “You weren’t loaded?”

“Not one bullet.”

“Good thing she didn’t run.”

“Good thing she was scared too shitless to do much of anything. It was under control, Near. What she didn’t know didn’t-- well, you know.”

“Alright. Matt’s, then.” Near is finally satisfied with the state of his hands, and he drags the questionably clean motel towel off the rack. He turns and leans against the basin, drying his hands as thoroughly as he washed them. “You can tell him we are on our way when we’re on the road.”

“Fine.” Mello rests his elbows on his knees, looking up at Near. Near really is reserved now, an absolute image of calm, which often happens after a kill. Mello knows Near prefers to bar himself from the world. But something truly wild is never truly caged, not absolutely, and Mello pushes and pulls at the locks to give Near a little help now and again. Like now, for instance. Because he knows he’s about to ask something which should probably be saved for later, especially since they should be moving about now, but he can’t hold his tongue. It’s been bugging him ever since Near stood up and looked over Maria’s corpse, which had looked much more complete after being pulled apart. “So why’d you do it that way, anyway?”

Near sucks his lower lip between his teeth and drags it back out again, slowly, obviously aware of how the movement catches Mello’s attention. Damn him. From that alone Mello knows Near is about to try and cheat his way out of this conversation. It’s probably a reaction he should have expected, and if Mello doesn’t try hard enough it will result in more lips and teeth and tongue than words. In an attempt to avoid that Mello stands and moves to trap Near in his space, hands resting on the bench on either side of Near’s tailbone. “No. Try again.” Mello says firmly, quietly.

“Curiosity.” Near, of course, counters easily. He lifts one hand from the tangled mess of towel he’s holding to take Mello’s rosary. Mello punched him the first time he did that. Now, his thumb glides over the obsessive detail of the crucifix, and Mello allows it. “Nothing else, really. Just curiosity.”

Mello take Near’s jaw and lifts it, none too gently, so he can meet Near’s eyes. “Then how come I don’t believe you?”

He really doesn’t. That answer is much too simple, and Mello knows that Near doesn’t think that shallowly. But Near is inherently a cheater and he knows how to escape conversations he doesn’t want to have. Near’s hand releases the crucifix and drags up Mello’s chest- his fingertips barely touching. “Because you’re overestimating how much it matters. Besides, we should be moving.”

Yeah. Mello expected that much. He’s a little pissed by the dismissal, though, so he takes Near’s hand and pushes it away from his chest. A little cold shoulder isn’t going to affect Near, not in the slightest, but he kids himself into feeling like it will at least make him feel a bit better. He’s about to walk away when Near leans in close, close enough for Mello to feel the ghost of his breath on his neck, and whispers lowly. “Burn it.”

Well, Mello hadn’t been expecting that. He knows that his bewilderment shows on his face.

When they’ve carved someone as beautifully as they have carved Maria, especially when Near is the one to do the majority of it, they leave the body alone. A gift for the good Inspector. Mello doesn’t really mind, because it doesn’t happen very often, and Near doesn’t try and stop him setting his fires otherwise. Aside from that, Maria would look even better in the more alive red of fire than the sharp crimson of blood. Mello studies Near. He finds nothing that would show that Near is anything less than serious.

“ _Burn_ it, Mihael.”

That’s the tipping point.

If this is some kind of abstract half-apology from Near for not elaborating further, he’ll take it. Mello doesn’t say anything more to Near, he just moves out of the bathroom, taking the lighter he had used to light Maria’s cigarette with out of his pocket as he goes. It will now set her ablaze. There’s some metaphor or irony about smoking and life and death in that; Mello doesn’t care enough to think about it. This is when it’s thrilling- when he is anticipating the ash and the flames that he can make climb higher, higher, and higher again. He would enjoy seeing this whole motel go down. This room will be enough.

Near is already gone, taking their last remaining bag in the room with him. He doesn’t care for fire. He does, however, tolerate Mello’s love for it, even though Mello will smell like gasoline and fire later. Or maybe that’s why he puts up with it at all. Skin warm from fire against lips and tasting of smoke on tongue is nothing he has ever complained about, after all.

And he certainly doesn’t complain tonight, because the flames are dirty and spreading fast and no matter what Near thinks of fire, he can’t deny how his eyes go wide when he twists around to see the inferno Mello has created burning behind them.


	4. justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I have to give a quick note of love to Tumblr users [headacheglitch](http://headacheglitch.tumblr.com) and [hayleybopcoment](http://hayleybopcomet.tumblr.com) for the [absolutely](http://headacheglitch.tumblr.com/post/110496430622/aaand-another-drawing-for-wxmmyshouse-an-attempt) [incredible](http://haleybopcomet.tumblr.com/post/110841019097/i-finally-finished-this-this-is-for-the-wonderful) pieces of art they have made for this fic. Please go cry over the beauty of them, as I have done many times.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this new chapter!

Light spends little time looking around the crime scene itself. The rest of the police force, who are currently taping off the motel and accounting for those who had been staying in it, probably see that as evidence of a bloated ego. Light thinks it's rather effective time management.

Here’s the thing. Killers that work like this and that leave crime scenes like this are methodical, no matter who they are or how disturbed their minds. They have systems, comfort zones, routines; just like the rest of us. They are exceptionally arrogant. These two are exceptionally, _especially_ arrogant. They want Light to know their work, because otherwise there's no real point, is there? He is well aware by now that they know he can identify where they've been from a few glances, and they're also likely to believe that Light's absolute failure in catching them thus far is probably a good beating to his reputation. Light just thinks that the day he gets them behind bars (he has, of course, every confidence that will happen soon) will just add a few more kicks in the gut to theirs.

They aren't perfect. The longer they believe they are, however, the easier it will get to track them down.

"One body. No identification. Female, aged between 21 to 30 years old." Shuichi peels his gloves off his hands, his face twisted in disgust at the sight and smell of the room they're standing outside of. Blue and red lights, combined with the lingering smoke in the air, make the whole situation look like something out of those bad TV cop dramas that play here constantly. "They've out done themselves this time, Inspector."

"It's a real horror show, alright." Touta appears moments later, looking a little queasy himself.

Light watches the firemen and investigators move in and out, trying and mostly failing to ignore the stench hanging persistently in the cool night air. He blocks it out as best he can, and while that isn’t much, it’s enough once he’s distracted himself by thinking through what they know so far. If they can confirm that those two did this, that will be their thirty second kill in so many months. God knows how many more they’ve had in the years before they had started acting together, how many bodies it took before they had learned to take lives so efficiently.

There are many things to consider in this case. While Mello and Near aren't unique in the way L was all those years ago was, nor do they own eyes with such tedious attention to detail that B had, they still seem determined to prove their cunning in a similar, childish way. It is a game of cat and mouse and they like to see a predator chasing its tail. It's more than sympathy for the dead and their families or the absolute evil of this series of murders now; Light wants to catch these bastards for the sheer satisfaction of their faces when they realize they have found themselves caught beneath claws.

That, and he will not let these two become another L. That case brought him to America, and its ghost has kept him from leaving. He doesn't need a second hanging over his shoulders- the faith the police and FBI have in him is beginning to deteriorate as it is. He needs their trust if he’s got a hope in hell of tracking these two down, and seeing them sentenced to death when they are arrested.

"I have no doubt that it was them.” Light’s aware of the brief silence, and speaks up, aware that they’re all still hovering around him because they’re waiting to hear his opinion. They always are. “I'm sure you'll find the evidence you need to make that official once the room has been fully searched. This isn't a question of who did it; it's a question of where they're headed next."

Kiyomi shifts her weight beside him. There’s a scowl on her face, an unpleasant twist in her otherwise attractive features. Light respects her, and she’s stuck with him throughout this case and cases before it despite their absolute bleakness, but even she has failings. A very quick once-over of the room was all she could manage before she herself began to turn pale. Light doesn't blame her for that, though. He still remembers the first time he saw, and smelt, a murder like this. It wouldn't surprise him at all if Mello and Near did it on purpose. A very concise _fuck you_ , just for the police force. "And you're absolutely sure? If we’re going to--"

"Kiyomi." He cuts her off. "Do you have any real doubt at all? After seeing that body?"

She sighs heavily, turning away from the motel room in favour of facing Light. Kiyomi is wearing a brave face, but he knows that she’s rattled. Light isn’t too concerned about that, if at all- she’ll correct herself quickly enough. "How do we know where they're going, then? They don't follow a pattern, it's... Random."

"No such thing as random with these two."

Aizawa and Touta move away when Hideki calls for them, and Light and Kiyomi are left standing in silence. The sheet of blue above them is beginning to burn purple at the edges, while flaming red and orange are just now poking their heads above the horizon line. Sunrise is coming. Light is all too suddenly aware of the aching in his eyes, the heavy weariness he feels right down to his bones. He’d only had a couple of hours sleep, at the most, before he got the call that he was needed. His watch tells him that it is 5.58am.

Another night of sleep lost to this case.

"They've been moving generally southward since Manchester." Takada’s hand moves up to her collarbone, as if to rub her eyes, but stays poised over her neck when she seems to think better than smudging her makeup. Clearly, they were both on the same train of thought about fatigue. They are both too proud to admit what this case has done to them, though. "Passed right through New York. But do you think they'll keep heading that way? As soon as they believe we've found a pattern, they change it."

"Killing sprees don’t generally head backwards. However, I don’t really trust ‘generally’ on this case." Light watches his breath condense in front of his face, white and bright and gone in a second.

Maybe these two are smarter, cleverer, more brutal than average. But it all boils down to the same evil. The same plague, a different outbreak. Disgusting.

Light knows that there will be one mistake. They are only human, after all, and one misstep is all he will need to slip ahead of them. Catch them with the blood on their hands and throw away the key. Be home in time for Misa to have left the amount of missed calls in his inbox at a reasonable amount. "You know,” Takada wonders aloud, “there's every possibility that they could head back to New York. We already know they have a contact there. They could think that giving us the idea that they're heading south will give them a chance to gather themselves there. Sounds like a train of thought they would follow to me.”

It, frankly, pisses him off to think these two would have the nerve to underestimate him enough to assume as much. But she’s not wrong. “Could be, could not. In any case, the first thing to do is to let any media station willing to listen to us that it was them. Get their descriptions to every gas station or diner small enough to seem safe to them, particularly those that don’t have solid security. I want everyone within 500 miles to be looking for those two. If we can get a sighting, we can mobilize.”

“It’s too early to be releasing that it was definitely the pair of them though, isn’t it? Surely the sheriff won’t allow you to. Neither will Lidner.”

“This could be a chance to corner the two most dangerous killers in America. I’m sure we’ll convince them.”

-

“You will _not_ convince me.”

Light grinds his teeth together, glaring at the cell phone that Sheriff Naomi Misora is holding in her hand. The sky is bright now. With the sun came nosy locals, journalists, national news stations, and a light downpour which has done nothing to deter the crowds from seeing a good old murder investigation unfold. The body has been removed, and a teenager, maybe a young adult, is bawling into the shoulder of a paramedic. Light guesses they’re a friend or a relative of the deceased, because Kanzo is hovering anxiously and waiting for their attention. It’s quite the scene.

But Light doesn’t think much of it at all. He’s too busy tying his tongue into knots trying to persuade Special Agent Halle Lidner that he knows better than the feds do. A couple of years ago Light would have had no trouble with this phone call- hewould have been able to mobilize the entire FBI at his leisure. Now one agent refuses to let him make a statement. Honestly, it’s beginning to grate on his already frayed nerves.

“Agent Lidner, consider the bigger picture. If we release--”

“If we release an _assumption_ , and cause unwarranted panic.”

“...If we release their descriptions and the areas we believe they could be traveling through, with the information that they have killed an innocent girl, there will be an awareness that will make a significant difference. With all due respect, the only way to find these two or their faces is through numbers. This isn’t a matter of fear. This is a matter of finding two bastards who are currently kicking this country in the gut.” Patriotism hasn’t failed Light yet.

“So what you’re really doing is trying to call on psuedomilitary types to fight the good fight. The last I checked, Yagami, you were the one who was supposed to arrest these fugitives. Are we _assuming_ that has changed?”

Unbelievable. How stupid is this woman, anyway? Can she not see what is more important right now? “In any other case, I wouldn’t be making such a request. But we know the type of victim they approach, and we also know that they manage to have those people go with them without physical force. If we can narrow down an area, we can narrow down the personality they go after, and we can bring these two bastards in. In situations like these, Agent Lidner, sometimes what is necessary isn’t what is ideal.”

The conversation halts there, and it’s suddenly quiet, excluding the low buzz of gossip and scandal from the public around them and a crackling sigh from the speaker. The heat from the argument begins to cool. Misora remains silent. She’s already made it quite clear where she stands, but Light thinks she may have softened as the debate has gone on. He hopes. It would be nice to have her on his side, because Takada’s voice cannot have the influence the Sheriff’s could, nor can any of the others on Light’s task force.

“If there’s any evidence at all that they may be in this area, it’s enough.” Naomi finally speaks up, looking thoughtfully at the pavement at Light’s feet. When her gaze climbs upwards, she seems settled, calm. Light breathes a quiet sigh of relief. “You must admit that this reeks of them, Halle. And if nothing comes of it, what do we have to lose at the most?”

Lidner says nothing for a long moment. Light knows that she’s backed into a corner, though, and sure enough, she speaks up fairly quickly. “Okay. Fine. But this is on you, Yagami. We’re expecting results. America is watching.”

Light grimaces, but manages to twist the expression into an appreciative smile. Being Japanese made it hard enough for the American authorities to stretch their faith in him, let alone the public. This case has gone on much too long already, and the body count is too high. It’s about time it closed. Nobody really cares how that happens. Light knows most of the higher-ups here would like it if Mello and Near happened to disappear: no trial, no mess. While he can’t necessarily promise that, he can promise that this case will end with those two dead, one way or another.

“Of course, Agent.”

Naomi swipes her thumb across the screen and dismisses the call, parting with barely a nod. The glow of success Light feels fades rather quickly when he glances over at the media, pressing against the police tape, waiting with tight knuckles on microphones. Pretty girls stand in pretty suits, brushing their hair out of their faces for the close ups, lips pursed and faces stern.

Light has always hated American journalism.

-

Special Agent Halle Lidner leans back against the leather seat, turning the phone over in her hands, staring up at the car roof. There’s crap coffee sitting on the dashboard. The heating still hasn’t been fixed, so there’s a chill hanging in the stale air. Her contacts list is open. Every time the phone screen dulls she taps it to keep it alive, even though she isn’t doing anything else besides. She feels slightly ill for what she knows she’s about to do, though.

There’s nothing she can do about it. She’ll sit here for hours, or she’ll make this call. Somehow, the former is more appealing.

Halle taps the contact sitting in the middle of the screen, and brings the phone to her ear. It rings. _He won’t pick up_ , she thinks, because usually he never does. Apparently, she can’t even trust ‘usually’ today.

There’s a click, and Mello’s voice pours through the speaker, smooth and cool and completely unchanged since the last time they spoke.

“Good morning, Halle.”


End file.
